An Old Song
by Elfwine
Summary: This one is for you, a soft and sad tune that maidens sing in the halls of the Elven-king.


The **One** Disclaimer; everyone must know that it was surely not _I_ that created Middle Earth and all of its inhabitants. Anything original sprung from the depths of my wacky mentality.

**An Old Song**

The sunlight seems to melt and pours through the vents like sweeping rain over the timber floors. It feels pleasantly warm while walking through the halls of my father, under high ceilings of ornamented stone and past walls lit by delicately crafted lanterns. Every surface is smooth, broad, open and bright. Outsiders may visualize a bleak and difficult maze of halls, but those more optimistic could be sensible enough to understand the Elves of Mirkwood enjoy the comforting embrace of _Anor_ and the constant presence of growing life. At dusk _Ithil_ brings a white shadow and cool, silver light. But you can only see the stars if you climb the bracers and peer through the high vents.

Down the corridor I can hear Narglî singing, her voice supple, but still trembling. Like the rest of our brood mother is teaching Narglî the arts, her own voice rising sweetly and falling softly. They sing of distant years, black nights and trying seasons. It evokes strong emotions with a tender, haunting memory, like sadness that lingers for a long time. Below my feet I can feel the warmth of the early morning in the stone. It is this comforting presence that holds me for a while longer. Their song drifts slowly back, causing me to sway to the music and drone the following melody tenderly and quietly. Each note is fine, with a mystic personality that stirs the heart and soul.

Behind me passes a servant, also clutching to the tune. I can hear them singing under their breath, so as not to disturb me, but every word is clear. It is Tathar who has joined the song, a young but respected novice in healing with a smooth and sedative voice. One that leads many from the darkness and into less shaded places. The comparison between tone and personality is almost uncanny, but father once said that we recognize ourselves best through song. It took me many years to understand what he meant. If I have ever lost my way, of body or of mind, what little faith remains, remains in the pulse of past and present, bright and ever constant.

I lower myself to the floor, my back facing the wall. Hush channels come from the bracers, speaking of deadly winters and golden autumns. Narglî sings alone. "_Dûr lore esgal Anor, lenn forod glor elen. Rana nor, bein athan. Dûr glawar ben linnod."_

"Narglî, nursery rhymes are for the children, let us continue with the correct verse." Mother's chiding amusement effortlessly passes through the door and makes me smile. Because of her youth my sister sometimes performs with a little mischief, and though she enjoys her studies with our parents it can become rather…lacking. It was our father who taught us how to write our names and with great patience. He would often read short messages delivered from the field. But as a child Narglî would chase at landed flocks, and jump the baggage ponies over hallow logs without boots and trousers. Sometimes we would crawl around in the mud or build secret places in the trees like the animals. By now Narglî has outgrown most of these childish antics, still she has _slipped_ on occasion since.

I can hear footsteps coming down the hall to my left, abrupt but nearly weightless. Looking up I see the smiling face of Tûrwen, Tathar's lady cousin. They look much alike with their dark hair and soft colored eyes. Age however is the largest difference between them, for Tûrwen is far older and more experienced in her trade, with a voice that is rich and slightly less feminine, but not unpleasantly so. Even as she sings a different song I recognize the verse. Something the guards often voice when dismissed from duty or eating at the gate during the early hours. It usually helps get the blood pumping before a march. I can only guess she caught it from her brother, a seasoned warrior who works with the trainees down in the yards. She quickly passes by, shifting from one verse to the next just as easily as a sharpened blade would slice through grass.

I close my eyes. Listening blindly is like dreaming with an un-resting body. The music becomes something more than pleasant enjoyment; it is emotion that you cannot see but only hear. But there will always be more below the baffling exterior of beings than just the general sentiments; a complex riddle of one's true feelings. Voice is like a fingerprint, but with personality. It can either be accepted just as simply or harshly judged un-regrettably.

Narglî has ceased singing; the absence is a lonely one. I open my eyes and see mother standing in front of me, her face is well measured with understanding patience. Her dress bleeds into the sunlight like a cloud, but her hair appears darker than ever. "Just how long have you been sitting here prince?" Her voice is edged with a familiar amusement, just like the light in her eyes. It is strange to think that she was once frayed when it came to father, but that was a long time ago. _She's much like Narglî_, I think.

"Long enough to hear father's nursery rhyme." I stand and mother loops an arm around mine, laughing softly. It is an old household song, but one I will never grow tired of hearing.

(|)

_Notes_; Sindarian was used; please look for translations in the following. Narglî is a combination of Nar (fire) and Glî (honey). Tûrwen is a combination of Tûr (master) and Wen (maiden). Anor is Sun and Ithil is Moon. Tathar means willow. The nursery rhyme was written by myself, it reads; _Dark dream hiding Anor, journey north gold star. Wonderer above, beautiful beyond. Dark sunlight without song_. This may be roughly translated and grammatically incorrect. Also, this little verse was not meant to be a poem or poetic, so please forgive me if you were mistaken.


End file.
